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FANCIES 

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JOHN D. CASHIN 



Copyright 1910, by J. D. Cashin, 






Oh, Ireland for your holy sake, I'll joyful bear all pain ; 

To your high cause I consecrate my heart, my hand, my brain, 
If life and strife avail me not to save that soul one sigh. 

Then, crowning joy in your sweet name let one unworthy die." 

— Seatnas McManus. 



©CU261772 



Jin Jlppeal 

(Written for St. Patrick's Magazine, Dublin). 

Oh ! Erin, Mother Erin, it grieves me sore today, 

To see your sons and daughters in such numbers going away. 

Your bravest boys are crowding to a far, hospitable shore. 

From oppression, pain and sorrow, they are free for evermore. 

And guileless, gentle " colleens " with cheeks outvying the rose. 

Teeth the hue of ivory, and tresses dark as sloes, 

They're leaving dear old Ireland, for evermore behind. 

And Atlantic's breast they're cleaving, to Columbia so kind, 

Oh ! men of Erin, stay at home, our country needs your aid, 

Soon you'll see old Ireland, in battle line arrayed, 

Your manly hands and Irish hearts will then be well employed, 

Then strike from English bondage your country to divide. 

Newmarket, Co. Cork, March, 1900. 



Christmas Greetings to Corner Correspondents 

(Written for the Cork Weekly Herald). 

Oh ! would that I were able to pen a simple lay, 

I'd speed it to a few friends, on this coming festive day, 

Yes, I'd waft it 'cross the ocean to greet old friends I knew 

Ere fate destined they should travel o'er the Atlantic blue, 

For of all our Irish exiles that to foreign lands have gone, 

To none is Xmastime as cheerless as to the gifted child of song. 

And I'd sing the praises of you, lov'd Californian bard, 

Essay I would to show you how your stanzas I regard, 

When weekly comes the "Herald," I scan the ''Corner" sweet, 

What a disappointment if " T. D. S." I do not greet. 

Too, I know how lonely must you spend Christmastide away 

From comrades ever loving, in dear old Monegea. 

Old comrade, need I mention, I feel too well you know 

How your patriotic " spoutings " used to set me all aglow. 

How treasured, j^ou remember, they always were to me, 

The " Corner " donned an aspect, when appeared the name " D. D.' 

Now, old schoolmate shall we ever in the old town meet again. 

Whose scenery to you was the theme of every strain ? 

Too "Eirinn" from Westchester, who still sends that plaintive lay, 
For insertion to that ' ' old page ' ' a thousand leagues away 
And, Oh ! how welcome are they. May she live long to send 
Her "musings" to the " Weekly," the exile's dearest friend, 
So entrancing are her lyrics, and so graceful is her style. 
When she portrays the beauty of the gifted sainted isle. 



And, now on Xmas morn, you're bound to see always 
An epistle at Dunmanway, addressed to Mrs. Hayes. 
It comes far o'er the ocean from her loving exiled son. 
And contains within it folded, a handsome little sum, 
With counsel how to spend it on the necessaries of life. 
And forgotten she'd be never by her absent son and wife. 

There's another, tho' it's long since I saw his name appear. 
Then he was exploring the Wild West very near, 
Who has sent some lovely stanzas, a credit to his pen, _ 
On his boyhood home in Munster — days he spent therein. 
I hope to see now soon again he has not forgotten us. 
But will continue those favors, lustre crowned " Poeticus." 

I hope you will return when established will have been 

An Irish legislature again in College Green. 

Then from Tara's kingly summit, proclaimed by you shall be 

Our lov'd country has arisen from the yoke of slavery. 

As I feel within my bosom the hour is drawing nigh 

When old Ireland's sacred streamlet shall wave proudly to the sky. 

Newmarket, Co. Cork, December, 1900. 

Lines on the Death of a Dear Friend 

(J. J. O'Connell). 

Hark ! the ' ' banshee's ' ' plaintive wailing comes floating on the breeze, 
" Grim Death " I fear's approaching, mark the rustling of the trees. 
Too true ! I'm not mistaken, his poor soul has winged its flight. 
As ere morning's sun had risen, it was in its Maker's sight. 
So, dear friend ! you're gone forever, but your memory ne'er shall 

fade 
Till the shroud of death has wrapped me and at rest my bones are laid. 
Well I miss your " salutation," — your amorous ways — your smile, 
Your manly voice oft lifted in the cause of Mother Isle, 
And your favorite seat is vacant 'round the fireside's ruddy glow. 
Where nightly we assembled at the " school " you well loved so. 
The " master " he is mourning — your classmates sure as well, 
For your humorous diversions, words I ween can scarcely tell, 
Looking retrospectively, and musing awhile there. 
Find it's those wholehearted fellows are first death's taste to share. 
Peace be to your ashes — Sole tribute I can pay. 
With fervent hopes a favored glance will greet us the Last Day. 

New York City, May, 1901. 



Soliloquy of an Exile Entering New York Harbor 

(To the Statue of Liberty). 

All hail to thee sweet emblem, how I longed to gaze on you, 
And, Oh ! a thrill ecstatic runs now my bosom through, 
To taste the sweets of freedom, for long we've been confined 
In serfish yoke, by tyrants cruel in the Emerald Isle behind, 
Yes ! dear Ireland, you they've crushed into your bosom's core 
And how they love to persecute you daily more and more. 

Yes, they bind your limbs together, with their unrelenting chain. 
And closer still you're shackled if it seems akin to pain, 
Loved Ireland ! you're illtreated, your sons and daughters too. 
The emigrant ship proves plainly these things are all too true, 
It's seen daily at your harbors, well may you, Mother, weep, 
Bearing steadily your children o'er the briny ocean deep. 

Now Erin cease your weeping, too long you're shedding tears. 

Since Strongbow he first saw your shores almost eight hundred years, 

And freedom must not now for you with pen alone be won, 

Never land enjoyed her freedom, when she prayed without the gun, 

Say, then when you are ready, and proudly we'll march home 

To show our Saxon foemen what's in "Ourselves Alone." 

New York City, May, 1901. 



Lines Written on a Blank Leaf of a Copy of *' My New 

Curate" 

(Presented by Rev. R. Ahern, C. C) 

This little work I dearly prize— for oh, 'twas given me 

On the eve of my departure from my native country. 

It was given as a keepsake to remind me when I stray. 

Of one in dear old Ireland I remember well today. 

Like me you would it cherish, the donor's name you'll learn, 

One of Erin's dear old " Soggarths " the Rev. R. Ahern. 

And, at its presentation, I still can hear him say 

•*Of the Old Curate 'twill remind you when three thousand miles 

away," 
And v/ell it serves the purpose, for it each time I view. 
Fancy wafts me home again, to banks of the Dalua. 
Again he stands at the altar, in prayer the people kneel 
Chiming the responses — with what reverence they feel. 
But that cozy little chapel I God's laws imbibed wherein, 
Will ne'er again register as a sexton, J. D. Cashin. 

New York City, July, 1901. 



Ireland 

Shades of even gently wrap me, on this far western shore, 
And fancy now comes wooing me to that land I'll see no more, 
It opes before my vision, it ne'er looked before so fair. 
Frankly I'll acknowledge its rival can be met nowhere. 

See those lofty mountains cleaving their native skies of blue, 
With sides clothed o'er with " heather " how picturesque to view ; 
Too, your emerald ' ' banshee ' ' valleys where fays revels constant keep. 
With their gorse clad blossoms golden, a contrast oh, how deep. 

And your gently purling rivers, and your sparkling "Holy Wells," 
Lavish in their verdure giving to surrounding hills and dells, 
Your " Round Towers," they for ages the elements defy 
With the ivy twining closer, where shall like scenes greet the eye ? 

You may roam this world over, seek in vain in every land. 
Those scenes to greet I mention, go you must to green Ireland, 
Here's to you, green robed Erin, fairest isle beyond the foam, 
Whose visions ever haunt me, this earth where'er I roam. 

New York City, July, 1901. 

To J. K. Curran Island, Newmarket, Co, Cork 

(In reply to a eulogistic strain sent me). 

Dear old pal, how must I thank you for the praises you bestow 

On me and on my labors, illdeservest well I know. 

With the old team for my efforts I felt very well repaid. 

The war cry "Faugh a Ballagh," when in line they were arrayed, 

The orders that were given, how well did they obey, 

It showed their 'preciation of my efforts every way. 

Too, you know it's Erin's pastime from a very ancient date, 

I'm sorry tho' it's fading at a plague stricken rate. 

Yes ! the fame of " Emmet Curran's " was heard on every side 

Our deeds in song and story were told at eventide. 

Too, when defeat we met, it was taken just the same 

As when victory with laurels crowned us with her glorious name. 

Then at "Tom's " I well remember some pleasant hours there spent, 

But to those there my presence — what only rant I lent 

And when I grew too " eloquent," also a classmate gone, 

For our conduct he would club us with a cane he called " Long Tom." 

Ah me ! these things are over, I'll sit me there no more. 

For an exile now I wander on a far but kindly shore, 

And sorely now it grieves me, for nevermore I'll find 

Such manly-hearted, whole-souled lads as those I left behind. 

Sad it was to part them, old friends so tried and true. 

Yet where'er to roam I'm destined, I'll fondly think of you, 

Now, old comrade, I feel grateful for the good wishes sent to me, 

Accept my best in return from an old chum, J. D. C. 

New York City, July, 1901. 



Lines 

(Written on a blank leaf of a copy of the poems of Thomas Davis, the bard of 
Mallow, Co. Cork). 

This little book, tho' small it be and fragile may appear, 

But Oh ! to me it's priceless. Its contents I revere. 

For it's the work of one who would his very life lay down 

To see his native Erin bedecked with freedom's crown. 

O ! bard of famed Blackwater, Mallow's pride for aye. 

Your ballads, everyone is enervating for the fray, 

" Fonteno}^," it would have crowned you, but why should I exceptions 

make. 
Why what little merit has it, 'bove that lay " For Erin's Sake?" 
Ah ! surely it ne'er came my turn your praises for to sing, 
Or hope that by my ranting, I should you admirers bring. 
No such ideas ever caught me, it's an impulse from within 
An admirer's ardent bosom — believe J. D. Cashin. 

New York City, September, 1901. 



yl Valentine 

Dearest little lady, accept this tiny lay, 
Conveying not one sentiment of that I'd like to say, 
Would, Oh ! the gift be in my power, in accents ever sweet 
I'd sing thy many charms, all prostrate at thy feet. 

In early morn thy praises would be heard upon my tongue, 
At even when are sinking the rays of setting sun, 
I'd close those orbs of vision, and ask of Him above. 
To guide, protect, and cherish the object of my love. 

Oh ! the vision mesmerizing, your glances first I met. 
Such rapture felt this bosom I never can forget. 
Yes, the ecstacy by mortal was heretofore unknown. 
But I'm longing, ever longing, to call thee once my own. 

Must all my hopes vanish, as dew drops disappear 

When Sol peeps o'er the hilltops on a summer's morning clear? 

Still weary is the waiting, it wrings this breast of mine. 

Till I clasp thee to this bosom, your amorous valentine. 

New York City, February, 1902. 



The Manchester Martyrs 

'Tis a bleak November's morn in famous sixty-seven, 

To their country's cause in sacrifice three precious lives are given, 

Their tale,— it is an old one,— England's stern hate 

For that Isle of saints and martyrs she has failed to subjugate. 

' ' Ireland must be Irish ' ' was the cry throughout the land. 

So, England of the leaders thought their lives she would demand, 

Kelly and Deasy, in Manchester,— the first she did espy,^ 

Their only crime being Fenians, prepare they must to die. 

They're surrounded, they're arrested, placed in the prison van, 
But released at once they must be, else accomplished is her plan, 
The tidings thro' Manchester like lightning shoots around, 
'Twas then you'd say the Irish can everywhere be found. 
The van, it is approaching ; a crack rings through the air, 
'Tis soon reduced to fragments, liberated are the pair. 
But soon are quickly taken and securely bound this time. 
The three immortal heroes, Allen, Larkin and O'Brien. 

How they're mocked, insulted, scoffed at, and sentenced are the three 
To yield their lives at sunrise on an English gallows tree. 
Their hour is fast approaching, around their necks are placed 
Those cords with which so often have old Ireland's sons been graced, 
And as they stand there pinioned they clasp each hand in hand. 
Next moment 'fore their Maker praying " God Save Ireland." 
Mother Erin ! countless martyrs their lives have given thee, 
You can point to none more proudly than the brave "Manchester Three." 
New York, November, 1902. 

In Memoriam 

(To the memory of Miss Kathleen Cashin, who lies interred in Kilbrin Church- 
yard, Co. Cork. 

Oh ! how my thoughts go back tonight, to one I did revere 
Who soundly sleeps now her last sleep, my little sister dear. 
And Oh, how lonely 'tis to think that one so blithe and gay, 
Is resting now for evermore beneath the silent clay. 

Now when to mind her gentle ways I evermore recall, 
I, sink into dejection deep and tears begin to fall; 
For, Oh, I loved her dearly, did her almost adore. 
So, scimitar keen it pierces now into my bosom's core. 

But, consolation sweet it gives to me afar tonight. 

To know that she's around God's throne with countless angels bright, 

Where, forever she His praises will be chanting by His side. 

So I cannot fear His anger when I pass the Great Divide. 

What, tho' I'm doomed to wander it matters not to me 
Since knowing that she in spirit will my footsteps guiding be. 
Then, Kathleen dear, one fond farewell, sole object of my love, 
No matter where our ashes lay I hope we'll meet above. 
New York City, April, 1902. 

8 



Christmas f^usings 

A Christmas night in Ireland, a Christmas night in Ireland, 

In my home far o'er the sea, 
As the bells are sweetly pealing, 

Now I fondly turn to thee, 
And there around the Yule-log's fire. 

Old friends I so well knew 
When I was home in Ireland 

On the banks of sweet Dalua. 

A Christmas night in Ireland, a Christmas night in Ireland, 

In that Isle beyond the foam, 
Ah ! sweetest recollections 

Fondly cling to childhood's home, 
And at this festive season. 

We again that vow renew 
Our proudest boast, an exile's toast, 

"We'll ne'er prove false to you." 

A Christmas night in Ireland, a Christmas night in Ireland, 

Tho' I'll spend it there no more. 
Of its scenes and pleasant memories 

I am dreaming evermore 
Then, from Antrim's coast to Kerry, 

From Wexford to Donegal, 
Christmas greetings, heart's best wishes, 

Do I send you one and all. 

New York City, December, 1902. 



To a Friend 

Little dream you friend "Zero," in your Island home today 

That your gentle lay is humming by admirers far away, 

Little think you, that a copy should be wafted 'cross the sea. 

And tho' marked and stained by travel at length it reaches me. 

Then, Oh ! my "Island songbird," how glad to hear from you. 

You waft me back now once again to banks of the Dalua, 

How swiftly time has since rolled by, what changing climes we've seen. 

Since comrades, we together strayed within the Island Green. 

What visions then were seen by us, what castles built we there 
Not a dream of a tomorrow— that we'd ever know a care. 
Now, when Sol his beams are sinking I love to sit and dream 
Of those nooks and shady arbors, that now more beauteous seem. 
And I see in fancy's dreaming my own Dalua glide along, 
Native stream that so oft moved our own " D. D," to song, 
" Mohitus Rock," " McCartie's Tower," " McAuliffee's Castle '' too, 
"Miss Meelan's Cave," and yonder where reigned "Chieftains of 
Woodview. ' ' 



You say that since the "minstrels" left, their praises are unsung, 
It cannot be, for well I know, your ever gifted tongue 
Will ceaseless praise and halos bring around ' * Dear Island Green, ' ' 
Beauty's home, o'er ocean's foam where beauty reigns supreme, 
Now do not grieve that charms so rare, fail as they do, to keep 
Your children there,— for still they roam beyond the raging deep. 
Yes! that's too true, but well you know should Ireland's bugle call, 
Homeward bound they would be found, her children one and all. 

New York City, August, 1902. 



Sweetheart 

Hark ! the postman's shrilly whistle 

As he draws nigh to my door, 
And I rush to greet a message 

Hailing from my native shore, 
'Tis a wee, tiny package 

But securely sealed, and 
The superscription traced by 

A cherished sweetheart's hand. 

Now what gentle recollections, 

What throbbings stir this breast 
As once again I hearken 

You, sweet maid, I love the best. 
And once more dear girl, in fancy 

I behold your loving face, 
There it's vividly imprinted 

You still hold the premier place. 

And, you ask m.e if in exile 

I ever dream of you, 
And of hours we spent together 

On thy banks, far famed Dalua ; 
Yes, maid, in dream.s you're fairest. 

Your beauteous self is there, 
Too, those nooks and shady arbors. 

With a reverential care. 

Oh ! sweetheart needless mention. 

To me you're still as true 
As on that fateful evening 

We sobbed a fond adieu. 
And now I roam Cohimbia 

Where beauty reigns supreme. 
Your guileless face and matchless grace, 

I never yet have seen. 



10 



Then dearest one, your treasured note, 

Has joy untold me given, 
Tho' tear stained pages sadly tell 

The mood in which 'twas written. 
I'll ask you now cease weeping 

And dry those bitter tears, 
You still are mine, I'm solely thine, 

We've stronger loved with years. 
New York City, September, 1902. 

To T, ©. Shanahan, California 

Dear T. D. S. my gifted friend I hope you will excuse 

This long delayed reply of mine, —when last you woo'd the muse, 

How vain those lines addressed to me, well knowing they're not 

deserved, 
I've vainly tried Parnassus' heights, to nobler minds reserved, 
'Tis true I've sung of home and friends by Dalua's sylvan banks, 
But abler pens leftnaughtuntouched, then why should come the thanks? 
Still tho' their glories oft were penned in days of " Auld Lang Syne." 
No fonder heart their beauties pride than beats this breast of mine. 
And so, dear friend, you fondly ask, "Where is our own D. D." 
Whose lyre in silence long has lain, yes hushed in lethargy? 
He too has sung of every mead, of every hill and dale, 
'Till classed with Ireland's matchless streams, were Dalua and Ochale. 

Joy ! once again, " Responsive Notes " in sadder, sweeter strain, 
Have drifted to his " Island Home " across the boundless main. 
In dear " St. Patrick's " precious page, to old chum " D. O. C." 
He evermore recalls the past, and longs again to be 
In native shady arbors, ere cares caressed his brow. 
And where paths were strewn with roses, unlike East Hampton's now. 
Ah ! deceptive the illusions that lured us 'way from home 
As thin air long since vanished, now, an alien clime we roam, 
"Where is Eirinn from Westchester " will this call be all in vain. 
For months, aye years, I've waited to once more greet her name, 
But, once again with you I'll ask our sister sing once more, 
And laud fair Erin's beauties as sweet as heretofore. 

Too, "J. F. K." also " Mitseyah," whose pens in bygone days 
In "Herald's " page, alas no more, oft charmed us with their lays, 
In old Dunmanway's storied-town, where "gabled walls " decay, 
In crumbling grandeur still they linger, for the music of " Mitseyah." 
It cannot be they all have cast the gentle harp aside, 
Whose chords their fingers so oft touched at eve by Hudson's side, 
How sad were the vibrations, as wafted on our ears, 
On Erin's woes, with nerves as steel we could but drift to tears. 
Still another, and, 'tis years since last he took his pen in hand, 
"Poeticus," thy name is treasured sweetest minstrel of the "band" 
Once more awake your silent lyres, respond they ne'er shall fail. 
Portray the scenes, the glowing deeds, that gem thee Innisfail. 
New York City, July 1903. 

11 



Memories of Yuletide 

Chimes of Christmas sweetly pealing, 

As I lie me back and dream 
Of the old folks, scenes and playmates, 

Left behind by Dalua's stream. 
Tearful now the cherished memories, 

Of the joys I then used to know, 
On a Christmas night in Ireland, 

'Round the Yule log's ruddy glow. 

And how well do I remember 

How with holly berries red 
Days I spent in decoration 

Of the walls of that homestead, 
And from every nook and corner, 

And from every rafter low, 
"With premeditated object, 

There I strung the mistletoe. 

And oh, when early morning woke 

With candle's light growing dim. 
With solemn tread thro' snow knee deep 

We'd march o'er dale and glen. 
Was ever mission holier, 

To list' the ' ' early ' ' mass ? 
The countless stars that led us. 

Did brilliancy surpass. 

" Mavrone " salt tears fast trickle now 

This careworn face of mine, 
I feel there nevermore shall I 

Again spend Christmas time, 
But should it be, " His will be done," 

For me He knows what's best. 
But Christmas night 'neath Irish skies 

Shall memory treasure best. 

New York City, December, 1903. 



12 



The Corkmens Ball — February, 1904 

(Dedicated to its Officers and Members). 

You have heard of "Rebel Cork," 
Says the Shan Van Vocht, 

Of their work here in New York, 
Says the Shan Van Vocht, 

Faith this month at Sulzer's Hall, 

Will come off their Leap Year Ball, 

They from you expect a call 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

'* Leap Year " — cry of fair ones dear, 

Says the Shan Van Vocht, 
Will greet the boys, but do not fear, 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
Meet from Ireland's seagirt shore. 
Friends, you'll see them by the score, 
Ne'er such numbers were before. 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

Don't forget to bring your feet, 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
For 'tis there you'll trip it neat, 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
There is ample room for all 
In that fine, commodious hall, 
E'en tho' it's the Corkmen's Ball, 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

The programme, did you see't? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht, 
Never was there such a treat. 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
Talent will be there that night 
Young and old for to delight. 
You cannot well miss such a night. 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

History's pages will recall. 

Says the Shan Van Vocht, 

The Corkmen's Leap Year Ball, 

Says the Shan Van Vocht, 

For never in this broad, fair land, 

Was e'er a fete so grand. 

Such a credit to Ireland, 

Says the Shan Vau Vocht, 

New York City, February, 1904. 

13 



Memories of Home 

Methinks this gentle lyre of mine must never speak once more, 

For, oh ! dust covered are its strings and seems its labors o'er, 

Not for months those chords have uttered scarce a note my soul to thrill. 

Lethargic slumbers bound me and seem to rule me still, 

In all my peregrinating I have clasped it to my breast, 

Will it now respond no longer ? Joy ! it lives at my behest. 

Come gentle muse sit close beside, indulgent be with me 

While memory wafts me to her shore my distant home I see, 

Heart of mine a-craving for the days of long ago, 

For the scenes of blissful childhood where Dalua's waters flow, 

Yearning ever, fondly yearning, once again blest haunts to view, 

There to greet the friends and playmates in the youthful days I knew. 

Dear theme of mine, but saddening ! How fond memory ever dwells 
On your hills, your meads, your valleys and your sparkling "Holy Wells, ' ' 
Or your blossomed gorse, a-golden 'neath summer evening's glow. 
When buttercups and bluebells and woodbines fragrance blow. 
Too, your silv'ry limpid streamlets on whose sides bedecked with 

flowers, 
I oft painted aerial castles, far from my native bowers. 

Musing in this western climate where the songsters all day chime. 
Where nature's ever blooming, one perpetual summertime. 
Hail ! a land of surpassing beauty, possessed of all that's brave, 
Where no tyranny may enter, and a welcome greets the slave. 
Still, tho' countless charms surround me neath Columbia's azure dome. 
Give me, oh give me Ireland, it is still my native home. 
Denver, Colo., August, 1904. 

Before it is Too Late 

Open now your fragrant cases full of cheering, sweet perfume, 
Raise the lid and waft the contents ere I fill my sombre tomb. 
Flowerets strevvn upon my ashes long have lost their charm for me. 
Life is o'er, peace to the sleeper ploughing no more life's troubled sea. 

Cheering words you meant to send me, speak them now, not yet too 

late. 
Ears grow deaf and hearts grow stony, time is fleeting, do not wait, 
You my friends with precious boxes filled with thrilling, cheering tones, 
Now's the time, they yet refresh me, useless when spoke o'er mj^ bones, 

'Place no daisies o'er my casket, speak no kindness when I'm gone. 
Write no eulogy on my tombstone, post mortem kindness there is none. 
Flowers placed on a loved one's ashes yield no fragrance, all is gloom. 
Dead, long dead, the kind words spoken, when you vent them o'er a 
tomb. 
Denver, Colo., September, 1904. 

14 



Visions Realized 

Oh ! what beauteous scenes enfold me in this sun kissed golden clime, 
Where the poppy's ever blooming and the warblers ever chime, 
Where the orange groves and vineyards and the rarest buds of June 
Are a-smiling by the wayside, a perpetual summer bloom, 
Here the mountains, vales and streamlets are the fairest to behold, 
And our world-famous " Sunset," is a glittering mass of gold. 

Of all joys that welled within me since I first beheld the West, 
Were as nothing to the pleasure of my greeting " T. D. S." 
To me, soul of inspiration ever since I've tried to "chime." 
Thy form I've seen in visions, clasped thine hand, quite many a time 
We've met. Must I remember all that we put to and fro, 
From the ' ' Golden Gate ' ' to New York ; things that happened long 
ago. 

We cut figures in the ' ' Herald, ' ' a memory now in Cork, 

Crossed a thousand leagues of ocean to the "Advocate," New York, 

We drank your health O'Connor, — " Faherty of the pen," 

" Mitseyah " was not forgotten, we raised one more to Tim, 

"Tyrone Benburb," an old pal of days that linger yet, 

" D. D." thy name is treasured, boyish pranks I can't forget. 

To " Josie in Angeles," and her " Summer Holiday," 

And that " Irish Queen " in New York, sweeter than the blooms of 

May, 
Too, the " Irish Girls' Social," all the friends from far and near. 
All the memories that we cherish, and places held so dear, 
To the Dalua's present minstrel, comrade of my schoolboy days, 
Jem, old pal, long may you cheer us with your pleasing roundelays. 

To the peerless M. O'Connell, pass the wine cup once more 'round, 

The kindness that he lavished and that welcome so profound, 

To the beauty of Columbia, land beyond compare. 

To her noble sons and daughters and the liberty we share, 

To our suffering Mother Erin, to her children miles away, 

Banished exiles widely scattered, to her future bright some day. 

San Francisco, Cal., April, 1905. 



15 



Am I Still Remembered There? 

'Tis a bright September morning and Dame Nature looks serene, 
The dew is on the hillsides and in pasture fields of green, 
The gay meadow lark has risen and his sweetness fills the air, 
Can I hope my memory lingers ; am I still remembered there? 

When the boys and girls together in the meadows tossed the hay. 
Where the linnets and the thrushes tuned in chorus all the day, 
And, when working hours were over, how the youngsters used repair 
To the ' ' Cross road ' ' fun and capers ; am I still remembered there ? 

With the boys of native village, does my memory linger still, 
With the "Colleens " on a Sunday, at the "meet " beside the mill. 
With the ' ' Emmet Curran ' ' football, at the ' ' sports" or ' 'country fair, ' ' 
Is this exile now forgotten ; am I still remembered there ? 

When old Sol's bright beams are sinking in the crimson of the west, 
And a calm and peaceful silence o'er the woods and valleys rest, 
Then the songbirds cease their warbling and it's quietness everywhere. 
Tell me. Oh tell me truly, am I long forgotten there? 

Heaven bless you, dear old homestead, where the hearts were fond 

and true. 
Where life's golden morning vanished, on the banks of the Dalua, 
Where my young heart beat with rapture ere my brow was seamed 

with care. 
Is my name e'en now a memory, am I quite forgotten there? 

Heart of mine you're tired of roaming and you sigh for long ago, 
How you still long for the old times and the joys you used to know. 
But there are countless leagues between you and the " Island " bright 

and fair, 
Ah! poor heart! You'dbreakwithgrieving, if you were forgotten there. 

Oakland, Cal., September, 1905. 



16 



Thoughts 



Blest Christmas time, blest Christmas time, 

Once more has come around 
And joy and peace, — " good will to man " 

Doth everywhere abound, 
The Yule log's blazing once again, 

The blessed candles' glow 
Recalls again, — this exile's breast 

Of Christmas long ago. 

O ! cherished dreams of childhood, 

Come back again and show 
Days romping through the wildwood 

Where Dalua's waters flow. 
Bring back the friends of boyhood's days. 

Oh ! bring them back once more, 
But rude awakening, — cruel thoughts, 

They're gone for evermore. 

Chicago, 111., December, 1905. 



T^eminiscences of the West 

Once again 'mid the strife, the din and the roar 

Of this big "Empire City," I'm hustling once more. 

Where the old and the feeble are trodden to ground 

In chase of the dollar that's hard to be found ; 

Where the north winds blow cold and the snow is knee deep, 

And outside of hot gardens no floweret dare peep, 

A clime where old Sol if he lingers awhile. 

Is cautious, for man has laid claim to his smile, 

The groves are all silent, not a note heard today. 

Deserted the branches, all song birds away. 

What a difference now from a land where the sun 

Is smiling eternal his beams on each one. 

Where the skies are the fairest, the clouds gilt with gold. 

Whose richness of beauty can ne'er be extolled. 

Where the roses are blooming, summer — winter the same 

The " land of the gardens," you justly can claim. 

Where's the artist your landscape would venture to limn, 

Tho' immortal the crown fame has woven for him 

Or a pen to describe, with waters of sea 

To replenish an inkstand that thirsty should be. 



17 



Arise in the morning, a sin 'tis to sleep, 

There Morpheus can never your company keep, 

The sun just arisen, — the Heavens aglow. 

To mocking birds calling upbounds the fleet roe, 

Mark that barque on the water, how gentle its breast, 

Ah ! life was worth living, now you grieve not to rest, 

Now, here's where Dame Nature sits smiling alway. 

Last month and next, here December is May. 

This the land for a "Tinker," and oh such a crowd 

Swell up that legion, being one I feel proud. 

And "father of craft," dear lov'd soldering trade, 

I mind well the morning, with knapsack arrayed. 

You taught me "first lesson," 'twas "legging a pot," 

Next "tinning the iron " ere I'd patch some cracked spot. 

Do you think on that evening we plied swift the oar? 

And for " Belden place " bound there were tinkers a score. 

Tho' late to arrive, 'twas next morning I ween. 

In dreams I still cherish that entrancing scene. 

The " Peerless " and "Sully," I well have in view. 

As " mascots" their equals are still very few. 

Small wonder this evening as I sit by a stove. 
That again I am restless and anxious to rove. 
When I scan the horizon and muse on past joys, 
Now "shoulder the budget," to join tinker boys, 
For I long for the hour, 'tis coming tho' slow. 
When I hike it 'cross canyons and mountains of snow. 
And then I'll be with you, the kindest and best, 
Where nature is blooming serene in the west. 
And pleasure a-reigning unmixed with alloy. 
The spot where this " tinker " is destined to die. 

New York City, February, 1906. 



The Corkmens Ball 

To friends who have known of Cork County, 

To strangers who heard but then slept. 
To "wise ones " that know of our boimty. 

Promises made and well kept. 
Again comes a night of rare pleasure 

Come on, here's a welcome to all 
Where joy will be endless of measure, 

'Tis famous, this Cork County Ball. 



18 



To souls that are troubled with sadness, 
^ To brows that are traced with dull care, 

To bosoms that beat with life's gladness 

Be with us, in fun making share, 
The old, who no longer seek pleasure, 

Awaiting the trumpet's last call. 
Come, — stay — and St. Patrick will treasure 

The tidings, kind news of the ball. 

And tell him how well we are thriving 

On this distant, but dearly lov'd shore, 
Erin's music and dance by our striving 

Were ne'er in such splendor before, 
When for "pinions" he'll give you an order, 

Keep one kindly thought of the ball. 
And forget not to see the " Recorder," 

Then relate of the Cork County Ball. 

New York City, February, 1906. 



Love's Valentine 

To me fondly sweet this greeting, that now wakes within my breast. 

As wings a gentle message to you, maid I love the best. 

How I wish for art of Reynolds or the sweetness of Tom Moore. 

Then portray I could the beauties of a nymph so fair and pure. 

Oh ! angels now assist me, for this pen can ne'er express 

The many countless charms thy slender form caress ; 

Those silken locks in ringlets flowing from thy graceful brow, 

And eyes the hue of Heaven, would that I could bask there now. 

Lips that favor cherries, how I long to linger there. 

And cheeks, aye tint of roses is nothing to compare, 

A voice the choir of angels, thy soul essence of love, 

A throat of swanlike beauty, the meekness of a dove, 

Oh ! queen of Eve's fair daughters, so blest with grace divine. 

Thrones, titles, pelf, I'd barter to be thy Valentine. 

New York City, February, 1906. 



19 



First Annual ^all of the Corkmens Mutual Aid 
Society, N, Y. 

Oh ! for a night of real delight, 

Come trip it with Corkonians O ! 
Our annual ball appeals to all 

Who wish a night of pleasure, O ! 
On April nine, come rain or shine, 

We'll dance it with the lasses O ! 
Palm Garden's name will ring with fame, 

From all points of Manhattan O ! 

From Caransore to Arranmore, 

The boys and girls are coming O ! 
From Fair Head's side to Kerry's tide, 

Will never be such numbers O ! 
To grace the floor and Terpsichore, 

And join in merrymaking O ! ^ 
A programme rare, compiled with care, 

A feature Erin's dances O ! 

With plans well laid Cork's Mutual Aid 

Will sure go down in history O ! 
To swell our ball on friends we call 

Come join us and be merry O ! 
There Crones will be you did not see 

Since you left home, dear Ireland O ! 
On memory's slate jot down the date, 

April nine, Palm Garden, O ! 

Auburn, N. Y., March, 1910. 



LBJL 10 



20 



FANCIES 



SY 



JOHN D. CASHIN 



\ 



